


Believer

by Ithiel_Dragon



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ghosts, Kinda, M/M, Red Dead Redemption 2 Spoilers, Red Dead Redemption 2: Epilogue, Suicide Attempt, Supernatural Elements, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2019-11-05 00:01:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17908202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ithiel_Dragon/pseuds/Ithiel_Dragon
Summary: John knew that Arthur never liked unfinished business.  So it only seemed right that he try to finish what the older man had started, no matter how mundane or strange the tasks in Arthur's journal might seem.  On one such trip John decides to stop at the gang's old campsite at Horseshoe Overlook for the night.  When he arrives the area seems remarkably untouched, looking almost exactly as John remembers from eight years ago.  It almost felt like the place had been waiting for him to return... or something else had been waiting...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title based on the song 'Believer' by Imagine Dragons. I always think of John and Arthur when I hear it. 
> 
> Asorebae and Just-a-looser on Tumblr graciously allowed me to borrow their fic idea. Hope I can do it justice.

There were some days John didn’t know what he was doing anymore. 

Abigail had left him.  Taken Jack with her. John couldn’t even blame her.  It was probably long overdue. Eight years since the gang fell apart, she had stuck by him.  Moving from place to place. Never staying more than a few months, hell, sometimes not even a few weeks, in one area.  Because something would always happen to derail their attempts at finally living an honest life. Usually it would be his fault, whether he meant it to be or not.

In the earliest days, it was usually because he’d get recognized as one of the few living members of the Van der Linde gang left.  Not much he could really do about that. The scars on his face made it almost impossible to hide who he was. Growing out a thick beard sometimes seemed to help, but not often for very long.  So they were constantly on the run from the law and bounty hunters.

The further they headed up north into Canada the less people started to recognize him.  Thank god. But that didn’t mean their past still didn’t follow them like a bad odor impossible to wash off.  It became very clear to John very fast that he wasn’t much good at living an honest life. He was an outlaw. He’d been an outlaw since he was twelve years old.  It was all he really knew.  He had a quick temper, and an even quicker trigger finger. The skills he _was_ good at, mainly thieving and murder, weren't very useful when trying to find honest work. 

There were days when John wondered why he even still tried, after failing so many times.  But he knew the answer to that. Because he’d made promises. To Abigail. To Jack. And… to Arthur.

It had practically been Arthur’s dying wish to make sure that John and his family got out.  That they had a chance at a decent life. John sure as hell wasn’t going to dishonor Arthur’s memory by giving up, no matter how hard it might be sometimes.  He’d keep trying. No matter how long it might take. No matter what he had to do. Even if it meant buying land with money from a loaned from a bank (rather than doing the bank robbing, now _he_ was getting robbed by the bank, how was that for irony) and trying to set up a damned ranch even though he had almost no idea what he was doing…

He tried.  For Abigail.  For Jack. For Arthur… he tried. 

But he just… he just needed some time away from it all sometimes.  Even if it was just a few days to clear his head. Finding Charles again had dredged up a whole lot of emotions and memories that John hadn’t really been prepared for. The two of them hadn’t been all that close all them years ago, but… he still hadn’t been prepared.  He needed some time to process it all.

Going bounty hunting with Sadie did wonders for taking the edge off the jittery feeling John sometimes got inside. While it had gotten easier to ignore over the years, John couldn’t deny he still sometimes missed the outlaw life.  The rush he only ever got in the middle of an intense gunfight was addicting. As much as he hated to admit it, John missed always having a pistol in his hand. Considering it was one of the few things that John was actually _good_ at… But this time, John knew that wasn’t what he needed. This time… he needed quiet. Time to think. Something he usually wasn’t too fond of to be honest. Thinking too much about the past usually left him feeling depressed and angry at best, and at worst… it left him drunk, raging at everyone around him, and/or crying. 

Or doing something stupid. 

Rather than subject Charles and Uncle to any of that, John decided it was best he take a ride.  A long one. When he’d saddled up his horse, Charles hadn’t even asked him where he was going or when he'd be back. He'd just given him a look that was far too understanding and a nod.  Charles would keep an eye on things until John returned, no matter how long it took. It was all John could do not to tear up as he rode out of Beecher’s Hope and headed north. 

He didn’t really have a destination in mind this time, so he simply let the reigns hang loose.  Letting Rachel follow the road on her own, while he reached into the satchel John always kept with him. 

Cracking open the old leather bound journal was always bittersweet.  Reading Arthur’s familiar scrawl brought him equal mixtures of comfort and pain.  The first time he had opened the book and realized what he had in his hands, what Arthur had given him, it had reduced John to ugly tears for hours.  Thankfully he no longer had such an intense emotional outburst when reading the journal. But sometimes it would still make his throat tight as he skimmed over the entries he’d long since memorized. 

Arthur’s thoughts, feelings, dreams, and doubts… Arthur wrote down everything.   _Everything_. Interesting people he'd met. Every animal he’d see and weed he plucked from the ground.  Some of the more strange things Arthur kept track of ranged from giant bones and weird rock carvings, to cigarette cards. The first time John came across one of those weird looking carvings that hadn’t been mentioned in the journal, it had just felt right to take out the book and add it to the pages.  Arthur had always hated unfinished business, and John knew he would have completed each and every task he kept track of in his journal if he’d had the time… Since Arthur couldn't, John did it for him. Even if he didn’t really enjoy some of the things.  Like fishing.  That had always been more of Hosea's thing.  Still, if he heard news of some ‘legendary’ fish in the area as he was passing through he’d take the time to stop and try his hand at catching it.  

Somehow doing these things made him feel closer to Arthur now than he ever had in life. Arthur had always been a very private man, rarely sharing his thoughts, feelings, or hobbies with anyone else.  John felt like he was getting a glimpse of a different side to the man that John had known for most of his life.  A side that maybe Arthur had _wanted_ him to know.  He liked being able to share these things with Arthur... it was only too bad they'd never gotten the chance while Arthur was still alive.  John smiled in a mixture of amusement and sadness as he flipped through the book.  Comparing Arthur’s artistic sketches to his own pathetic looking attempts. Arthur would probably be horrified if he could see them…

Still, he took out a small stick of graphite and kept his eye out for any interesting plants or animals he may not have seen before and scribbled them down. 

It was near sundown when John finally started to pay more attention to where he was actually going, and was a bit surprised to find how far north he’d traveled without intending to.  John stopped Rachel at a crossroads and stared at the old wooden signpost there. Worn, but still legible letters spelled out the name of Valentine. After a moment of consideration, John urged the horse down the road that would take them away from town rather than towards it.  He wasn’t sure where the sudden urge came from, but even though he hadn’t been in this area for years, he still knew the way by heart.

It wasn’t long before he came upon the familiar ‘entrance’ created by two fallen trees leaning against one another.  He led Rachel under the makeshift arch into Horseshoe Overlook and stopped.

It looked just the way John remembered it.  Even after all these years… it was as if no one else had been there since their gang had left.  Though John knew that had to be impossible. It was far too nice a spot for camping for _no one_ to have made use of it after they had moved on.  Still…

John dismounted Rachel and gave her a gentle pat on the nose before leaving her to graze as he walked the area.  He could still remember the exact spot Dutch’s tent had been. His own. Arthur’s… A ring of stones was left from where the campfire had been.  A broken wagon wheel was still leaning forgotten up against a tree. A tin plate that must have fallen from Pearson’s wagon remained where the cooking pot had been set up…

It was rather… surreal.  How untouched everything seemed.  As though the place had just been waiting for them to return…

John shook his head, dismissing the idea, as he walked over to the edge of the cliff.  The sun was just starting to set over the mountains and the view was just as magnificent as it had been years ago.  He walked over to the very edge and sat down, dangling his feet over the sheer drop. He smiled as he imagined Arthur calling him a reckless idiot for doing so.  There he watched as the sun slowly sank into the horizon, turning the clouds in the sky magnificent colors ranging from fiery oranges and reds to more subtle pinks. But eventually the colors faded away into darkness and the first stars began to appear.  As the moon began to rise, only then did John get up from his spot and make his way back to Rachel.  She stood in the middle of the clearing, looking a little agitated, her ears flicking slightly.

“What’s wrong, girl?” he asked, rubbing along the mare’s neck comfortingly.  She snorted at him and nuzzled his hair. He smiled, gave her another pat, and dug an oat cake out for her.  Once she seemed more relaxed, he made his way into the trees to gather some firewood.  It didn’t take long to set up his camp, the process was so ingrained it was practically second nature.  Once the tent was up and the fire was going he made himself a quick dinner of dried venison and a can of beans, washing it all down with a bottle of whiskey. If Abigail were there he knew she would be frowning distastefully at him.  She never liked it when he drank… mostly because liquor tended to make him stupider than normal.

But… Abigail wasn’t there…

So John drank.  He sat by the fire, flipping through Arthur’s old journal and tried to decide where he'd go from here.  John didn’t really feel much like fishing this time around… Maybe hunting? Arthur’s journal mentioned an extremely large grizzly bear that he and Hosea had tried hunting once upon a time but hadn’t managed to bag.  It wasn’t too far from here… but then again, after all these years what were the chances of that ‘legendary’ grizzly still being alive?

John snorted and shook his head at his ridiculousness.  Arthur would probably think he was an idiot for doing this.  One of the last things Arthur had told John was to ‘not to look back’.  Yet here he was… trying his damnedest to complete the ‘unfinished business’ of a man who’d been dead for years…

“Arthur, am I being an idiot?” he whispered aloud, smiling as he remembered the last time he’d asked that very same question in this very same place. 

He could almost hear Arthur’s bland and frank ‘yes’. 

John laughed, though what came from his throat sounded more like a sob. 

“I thought so…”


	2. Chapter 2

John had always hated that phonograph. 

He remembered when Hosea had returned to camp with the device as a gift for Dutch.  It hadn’t even been stolen. Hosea had bought it proper in some fancy music shop in town.  Dutch had been so damned excited when he saw it, like a little kid with a new toy. John had always thought it sounded... weird.  The music that echoed from it was scratchy and strangely pitched compared to the rich notes from an actual guitar or piano that John was used to hearing.  When he’d said as much, Dutch had merely scoffed and called him uncultured, while Hosea laughed behind his hand.

While John may have gotten used to it over the years, that didn’t mean he liked hearing the damned thing spring to life in the middle of the fucking night! 

“What the hell, Dutch…” John grumbled as he pulled his flimsy pillow over his head in an effort to muffle the music.  The bottle he’d gone to bed with tipped over and rolled away in the dirt, but John didn’t give a damn right now. He was still very drunk.  But his head was already beginning to throb, warning him of the impressive hangover he was bound to have come morning. This was the last thing he needed. 

What was Dutch even thinking…

It took John far longer than it should have to realize something was wrong about the whole situation.  Probably because it was all so damned _familiar_ .  He couldn’t count how many times he’d fallen asleep listening to that damn music.  It had become almost comforting after a while. Yet hearing it now made his blood run cold. Because that phonograph had been destroyed _years_ ago at Beaver Hollow.  Dutch, Arthur, and the rest of the gang were long gone.  Despite all this he was _definitely_ hearing music… and voices… coming from outside his tent. 

Swallowing against the lump in his throat, John pushed himself up shakily from his bedroll and fumbled for the revolver in his gunbelt.  Goosebumps had broken out all over his skin and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. His hands hadn’t shaken this much holding a gun since he was twelve…

He silently crept towards the front flap of his tent and hesitated far longer than he should have. It was probably just some kids from Valentine who’d dragged an old phonograph out here to drink and party in the middle of the night… or something.  There was no reason to go… jumping to conclusions. No matter how familiar the music or voices sounded on the other side of the canvas…

John quickly whipped back the flap of his tent… and was met with a sudden and eerie silence.  The moon hung low in the sky, bathing Horseshoe Overlook in a silvery light. There was no sign of anyone else.  No noise besides the familiar sound of nighttime insects. A coyote howled somewhere in the distance…

There was no music…

No voices...

John blinked owlishly in confusion and shook his head.  Then laughed derisively at himself under his breath as he holstered his weapon.  He crawled back into his tent and flopped back down onto his bedroll, burying his face into his flimsy pillow. 

He must be losing his goddamn mind…

 

* * *

 

Unsurprisingly John woke in a foul mood the next morning and it was all he could do not to shoot the twittering birds that had taken up residence on a tree branch over his tent. Instead John stoked his campfire back to life and brewed himself the strongest coffee he could stand without turning it into black tar.  He decided to skip breakfast entirely and started packing up his camp as fast as he could.

Rachel had seemed nervous ever since they’d arrived, and now he couldn’t blame her.  This had been a bad idea. He never should have come here. Too many bad fucking memories… and worse, ones that weren’t so bad…

After leaving Horseshoe Overlook he decided to stop by Valentine.  If he was really going to try his plan of hunting bears he was going to need to be prepared.  He’d need some predator bait, and probably some stronger ammo than what he’d brought with him.

No one looked twice at him as he rode into town.  Not that John had really expected them to. Despite the fact that the town itself seemed little changed over the years, it had been a long time.  Eight years. The Van der Linde gang might have shot up half the town, but those who’d remained had obviously moved on. He rode right past the sheriff’s office, and there wasn’t even a single wanted poster of him or anyone else in the gang hanging on the board outside.

He hitched Rachel outside the general store and made his way inside.  The stock seemed little changed, but he still took his time browsing the shelves, since he wasn’t in any real hurry to begin with.  He eventually bought what he needed, then headed outside to store the goods in Rachel’s saddle bags. He was on his way to the gun shop when he passed by the saloon and decided a bit of the hair of the dog might help with his pounding head.  It wasn’t like Abigail was around to give him scathing looks for drinking in the middle of the day, so he went inside and up to the bar.

Like the rest of the town the saloon wasn’t all that different from the way he remembered.  The bartender might have even been the same. But he didn’t seem to recognize John when he ordered some beef stew and a whiskey.

It wasn’t until John was on his third whiskey that he realized most of the chatter in the saloon seemed to be centered around one table near the back.  A few kids seemed to be gathered around an old drunk that reminded him way too much of Uncle for his liking. Whatever the man was going on about must have been riveting given the attention he was getting.  John certainly wasn’t in the habit of paying attention to rambling drunks, but the volume in which the man was speaking combined with the lack of patrons in the saloon meant he couldn’t really help but overhear. 

“... I’m telling you, they was strange times.  People always said this town was cursed. Something to do with them Indians that were run off the land before the town was built.  Some say they didn’t leave, instead the entire tribe was killed, and that’s the reason for all the town’s bad luck. But still, nothing like it had ever happened before or since.  Near half the town shot dead in a single afternoon…”

John knew exactly what the old man was referring to and decided he’d probably worn out his welcome.  It was time for him to go before someone _did_ recognize him.  He threw a few coins on the bar to pay for his drinks and kept his hat tilted low over his face as he headed for the door.  But before he made it outside, his ears picked up more of what the old drunk was babbling about.

“... I’m a god fearing man.  I don’t usually believe in all that nonsense.  But I’m telling you, there’s something strange about that place.  No one dares go near Horseshoe Overlook these days, and any unfortunate traveler who doesn’t know to stay away finds out real quick.  People will swear being shot at even though there ain’t no one around, and that’s just during the day. Heaven help you if you go to that place at night…”

John stopped in his tracks and turned around with wide eyes.

“What did you say?”

The old man perked up, obviously pleased at having a wider audience than the gullible teens crowded around his table.  John was already beginning to regret it when the man continued on.

“I know it sounds crazy!  But it’s the truth! Horseshoe Overlook is haunted.  Mark my words, it’s got something to do with that _gang_ that was there eight years ago.  Brought the devil himself with them, and he never left.  No one has been able to set foot there ever since…”

John didn’t know whether to be offended or laugh at the absurdity of it all. 

“That’s horse shit.  I was camped there just last night…” It wasn’t until the entire saloon went almost deathly silent that John realized he should have just kept his mouth shut.  Because it wasn’t just the dumb old drunk and kids that were looking at him with stunned expressions, but everyone else in the saloon as well. 

They couldn’t _really_ be dumb enough to believe all that nonsense about ghosts and devils, could they? 

“Really?  You really camped there all night?” one of the boys asked.

“Wow… you’re so brave, mister…” the girl commented. 

“What was it like?  Did you see any ghosts?” another boy bombarded him excitedly. 

The old drunk looked irritated at having his audience stolen away, but he was also looking at John with a certain amount of wariness.  He wasn’t the only one. John was well aware how simple folks minds worked. If they truly believed that place was somehow cursed by the devil and John had stayed there unmolested… This could turn bad quick. That was the _last_ thing John needed, when he was trying _not_ to get noticed. 

“Don’t believe everything you hear,” he replied to the kids harshly, and gave the old drunk a meaningful glare before turning to leave.

“You mean… you didn’t see anything weird at all?” one of the teenagers persisted, and John was about to snap, before he remembered the music and hesitated.  In the morning he’d written the whole strange experience off as just a drunken dream, but…

“You did!  You did see something, didn’t ya!  What was it?”

John shook his head angrily. 

“There ain’t _nothing_ out there!” he said as he stormed out of the saloon.  

 

* * *

 

“What the hell are we doing here, girl?” John muttered under his breath.  As though in answer, Rachel snorted loudly, her breath creating a little fog in the cool evening air.  Her ears flicked nervously and she was unusually restless as they stood on the overgrown path that would take them into Horseshoe Overlook.

“You and me both…” he agreed.

This was stupid.  He didn’t believe in ghosts, for crying out loud. 

_Then what the hell am I doing here?_

He’d been halfway to Moonstone Pond when he’d turned around.  He wasn’t even sure why. He just… He couldn’t stop thinking about it.  Couldn’t get what the old drunk in Valentine had said out of his mind. Not to mention the music and voices he was sure he’d heard that night. 

He’d probably just dreamed the whole thing.  That was the _sane_ explanation.  Maybe he just needed to prove to himself that he wasn’t going completely crazy. 

So he spurred Rachel gently to take them into the trees.  

The moon was bright enough that he didn’t need to worry about Rachel stumbling over any sticks or rocks in the path.  Everything was quiet. Peaceful.  Insects chirped in the darkness. He could hear the frogs singing down near the river. An owl hooted somewhere.  It was just a normal night.  Nothing out of the ordinary.  Certainly nothing to indicate why everyone in Valentine was so damn afraid to come to this place. 

When they cleared the tree line, John reigned in Rachel abruptly, receiving an annoyed snort from the mare in response.  

A lone horse stood right in the center of the clearing. There wasn’t anything particularly odd about it.  Certainly nothing sinister. It had merely surprised him because he hadn’t been expecting it. The horse was staring right back at him, probably just as surprised to have a visitor in the secluded space, and John wanted to laugh at himself. 

God… he really was a dumbass, wasn’t he?  What had he been expecting to find? 

Then, to his surprise, the horse started to approach them.  John had to raise an eyebrow at that, because usually wild horses were pretty quick to bolt when humans came near. Especially if they were startled. But this one was walking right up to him and Rachel, seemingly unafraid…

Maybe it wasn't wild after all?  Maybe someone had just lost it?

Rachel was becoming more agitated by the second.  Her ears flattened and her eyes were wide as she stared at the other horse.  She stomped at the ground.  John frowned at her reaction and rubbed at her neck comfortingly, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the other horse.  Now that it was closer he was getting a better look at it. It was… a Hungarian Half-Bred if he wasn’t mistaken.  Dark bay coat with a silvery mane… in fact, it looked an awful lot like…

“Old Boy?” John whispered in disbelief.  But… it couldn’t be. Old Boy had… died. Shot out from underneath him the day he and Arthur had…

Rachel suddenly reared and John, completely unprepared for it, was easily thrown.  He landed hard on the ground, the air knocked from his lungs upon impact, and his head struck a large rock.  He could have sworn he heard someone calling his name worriedly before he blacked out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took such a long time. Wasn't exactly sure where to take this idea, but I think I have a direction now.


	3. Chapter 3

John groaned in pain as he returned to consciousness. 

Fuck… just how much did he drink?

He lifted his hand to his throbbing forehead, and was surprised when his fingers met a cloth wrapped tightly around his forehead.  Frowning in confusion he carefully examined the bandage and eventually found the tender spot on the back of his head that made him wince and hiss sharply. His memory came back in a rush along with the pain. He'd fallen off the damn horse and hit his head like an idiot who'd never ridden in his life.  He was probably lucky he hadn't cracked his skull open.

Perfect…

Someone from Valentine must have found him and tended to him.  Or maybe a traveler had passed by and decided to play good Samaritan.  Hopefully it wasn’t bounty hunters or lawmen, since there was always a chance they could figure out who he was.  Since he wasn’t in chains he didn’t think that was the case… He hoped Rachel was okay and hadn’t run off too far after she’d been spooked.

Even though he knew it would be unpleasant, John carefully opened his eyes. The light spilling in through the open flap of the tent practically stabbed into his retinas making him groan in discomfort. But he stubbornly blinked away the wetness gathering in his eyes and slowly pushed himself up in the cot he was laying on.

As he suspected, he wasn’t wearing his gun belt… or his boots for that matter.  But the former was laid on a small crate right next to the cot, weapons and all, and the latter were tossed in the corner of the tent. So he probably wasn’t a prisoner. That eased John’s mind a little. Still, it was probably best if he didn’t wear out his welcome with whomever had found and cared for him.  Given the way this trip had gone so far, John was more than ready to return to Beacher’s Hope now. He had a feeling God was telling him not to push his luck, and if he tried going after a thousand pound grizzly bear he’d probably end up eaten. 

John swung his legs over the side of the cot and carefully rose to his feet.  He immediately swayed and had to catch himself against one of the posts holding up the old canvas tent.  Thankfully it held under his weight instead of tumbling the tent down around him. That would have been just his luck…

He slowly made his way to the front of the tent, shielding his eyes from the blinding light.  Once he made it outside he had to wait several moments, blinking rapidly, for his vision to clear.  When it finally did, his breath caught in his throat and his knees nearly gave out under him.

It was… 

Horseshoe Overlook.  

But… not the empty clearing it had been.  There were tents and bedrolls set up all around him.  Supplies and wagons.  Horses.  There was a campfire burning nearby and the smell of cooking stew filled his nose.  Everything was just as John remembered it… from when the Van der Linde gang had lived there nearly a decade ago. The tent he’d emerged from… was his own. Dutch’s was set up right in front of his. Arthur’s wagon to his left…

No… it was impossible… it…

“John, my boy!  Good to see you up and about.  You took a nasty tumble there. We were worried,” a voice John had never expected to hear again called out to him and all the blood drained from his face in an instant.  Hosea Mathews walked up to him wearing a fond smile. As though nothing was out of the ordinary. As though John hadn't seen him shot dead in the street of Saint Denis by the Pinkertons so long ago.  John could only stand there, his eyes wide as saucers. His head spinning and feeling faint.  Hosea frowned at him.

“John?  Are you feeling alright?  Maybe you should sit down…”

Even as Hosea said those words, John felt his legs giving out under him.  Hosea cursed and rushed to catch John. He was much too heavy for the old man to support fully, but at least he managed to ease his fall considerably.  John shook his head, which did nothing to help the dizziness he was already experiencing.

“No… no you can’t… you’re dead… I saw you…” John muttered, causing Hosea to look at him with no small amount of alarm.  John wanted to laugh, but he was afraid it would sound hysterical, or he’d end up crying instead.

He was dreaming… that had to be it… it wasn’t real… it couldn’t be…

“Easy, John.  Take it easy now… just breathe...” Hosea reassured, patting him on the shoulder comfortingly.  A sob caught in John’s throat and his eyes burned. Then Hosea turned to call over his shoulder, “Arthur!  Get over here, John needs help.”

Hearing those words, John’s breath seized in his chest and his blood ran cold.  The sound of someone chopping wood (that John hadn’t really been paying attention to up till now) abruptly ceased. That's when Hosea moved, no longer blocking his view, and John’s eyes grew even wider, if that was possible. Because it really _was_ Arthur.  Arthur _fucking_ Morgan. Exactly as John remembered him. The older man buried the ax he’d been using into the stump before straightening and wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his arm.  When he turned to look in John’s direction it was with a scowl.

“What the hell has he gone and done now?” Arthur called back, sounding annoyed rather than concerned.  Hosea gave Arthur an exasperated look.

“Just come over here and help me get him back to bed,” Hosea ordered, his tone brooking no argument.  That didn’t stop Arthur from grumbling under his breath as he made his way over. John could only stare at the older man, his jaw hanging agape while his heart raced in his chest. 

Arthur stopped in front of John and tilted his head to the side.  He studied John a moment before turning to Hosea.

“You sure that rock didn’t knock out what little brains he had left in his head?”  Arthur asked. His tone as sarcastic, bordering on cruel, as it always seemed to be after John had left the gang for that year.  At least... before the end... but underneath the mocking words there was a tinge of worry that one would only be able to pick up if they knew Arthur well.  It was all so familiar, a sob caught in John’s throat and he couldn’t have stopped the tears that flowed down his cheeks if he tried.

Arthur’s expression shifted quickly between alarmed, uncomfortable, and finally settled on resigned. 

“Oh for the love of… Come on…” Arthur grumbled and reached down to haul John back to his feet.  At this point, John had absolutely no hope of supporting himself, his body completely numb with shock.  It was all he could do to cling to the strong arms wrapped around his torso as Arthur easily carried him back inside his tent. 

The last time John had seen Arthur… he probably couldn’t have managed this. 

Ever since John was a boy, Arthur had seemed larger than life.  He’d always been taller and broader than John could ever hope to be.  He’d seen Arthur beat men to a pulp twice his size, and haul around bodies or bales of hay equally as though they were light as a feather.  When John had finally returned to the gang, the first thing Arthur did was lay him out with a single punch, and it had taken four men to drag the older man off of him.

That had all changed in the months following Blackwater.  He’d watched Arthur literally waste away before his eyes. His clothes began to hang from his once broad frame and though Arthur had started wearing several layers in an attempt to hide this fact, he couldn’t hide his bloodshot eyes, the pallor of his skin, or the hollowness of his cheeks.  Never mind the deep racking coughs that plagued the man with increasing frequency. Or the blood Arthur couldn’t always conceal as he wiped it away from his lips…

John had known Arthur was sick.  He’d have be a real idiot not to. But he hadn’t known the full extent of it until he’d read Arthur’s journal for the first time.  He remembered feeling so… angry. Betrayed that Arthur had never told him. Arthur’s actions in the end finally made sense. Arthur had always known he wasn’t going to make it out alive, no matter what he did.  Instead he’d done everything he could to make sure John and his family _had_. 

Sometimes John wondered if Arthur ever would have forgiven him if he hadn’t known he'd been dying…  If Arthur might have lived a little bit longer if he hadn’t stuck around to save John’s ass...

But now… it was as though none of that had happened… and both he and Hosea were looking at John like he was crazy. 

“Am I dead?” John finally managed to whisper, earning him a snort from the older man that could have been amused or irritated.  It was hard to tell.

“If you puke on me, you will be,” Arthur warned as he set John back on his cot with a surprising amount of gentleness.  At least gentle where Arthur was concerned. Once John was laying down again, Arthur stepped back and looked down at him with an unreadable expression.  After a moment the older man shook his head and turned to walk out, but John reached out quickly to grab his sleeve.  Halting him.

Arthur frowned at him again, and John couldn’t help but laugh this time, though it probably sounded more like a sob.  He never thought he’d miss that angry scowl so damned much…

“What is it, Marston?” Arthur snapped, and John sniffled.  At the sound, Arthur began to look a bit alarmed again, like if John started crying again he didn’t know what to do. 

“I’m sorry,” John blurted out.  Even if this was only a dream… he had to say it at least once.  He’d never gotten to say it to Arthur when he was alive, “I never got to thank you.  For saving me… even when you hated me… you still looked out for me. Till the very end… I miss you so damned much…” 

Arthur blinked down at him, looking completely gobsmacked.  Until finally he pulled himself free from John’s hold.

“Go to sleep, you idiot,” the older man ordered as he turned to duck out of the tent.  John laughed again. Yeah… yeah maybe that was for the best. Before he did something to really embarrass himself.  Even if it was only a dream…

He wasn’t expecting Arthur to pause at the front of his tent.

“I don’t hate you, Marston,” he said so softly John might have only imagined it.  He was gone before John could ask him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter is a bit on the short side, but it seemed like a good place to stop.


	4. Chapter 4

There was a soft rustling as the flap of his tent was pushed aside, and John blinked his eyes open blearily.  His head still ached something fierce, and his brain was foggy with sleep. But that fog was burned away rather quickly when he remembered exactly where he was… even though it was impossible. 

“Good Afternoon, Mister Marston,” another ghost from his past greeted him with a smile that wasn’t unkind, but that didn't stop his stomach from dropping through the ground.

“Miss Grimshaw…” he whispered, his voice wavering slightly.  He couldn’t help recalling the moment when Micah had shot the old woman.  He remembered it like it was yesterday.  There had been so much blood. The sounds of pain she’d made... like a dying animal. There was nothing Arthur or John could do for her.  They couldn't even finish her off quickly to put her out of her misery.  They'd been forced to run.  To leave her behind... and even though there were no signs that any of that had actually happened to the woman, he swallowed thickly around the bile that welled up in his throat at the memory. 

With a look of concern, Susan approached his cot and reached down to press a hand against his forehead.  He'd expected it to be cold, yet it was surprisingly warm.

“You’re still looking a little pale, Mister Marston.  Might even be a bit chilled. Here, this should help,” she said, placing a steaming bowl of stew down on the crate acting as a table next to his cot.  He blinked at it uncomprehendingly for a moment before managing to mutter a soft thanks. She smiled at him again, and patted him on the head like a boy. 

“Eat up and get some more rest.  I’ll be in to check on you later,” she promised, and with one last look slipped back out of his tent.  John could only lay there, stunned, his head reeling and his heart aching in his chest.

Many of the others in the gang had referred to Miss Grimshaw as the ‘Camp Dragon’ over the years because of how tough the older woman ran things.  But she’d always been a little soft on John. Maybe because she’d known him most of his life.  Since he was only a child. He’d never known his own mother. She’d died giving birth to him.  But he’d often wondered if the way Miss Grimshaw treated him would have been similar...

What… the hell... was going on?  Was this really all just a dream?  It had to be… but… John slowly pushed himself to sit up on the cot.  It certainly felt real under him. Solid. He reached over to touch the bowl of stew Susan had left, even though he had no intention of eating it, his stomach was churning far too much for that. But the simple metal bowl was still hot to the touch, almost burning his fingers.

John groaned as he swung his legs over to sit on the edge of the cot, hanging his aching head in his hands.  This couldn't be real. It _couldn’t…_ unless he was dead… He certainly didn’t _feel_ dead… but how the hell would he know what being dead felt like?  Not to mention the fact he was surrounded by fucking ghosts! What other explanation was there?

Unless he was just insane… What was his life when he was actually almost hoping for that option?

In a moment of panic, John leapt up off the cot, nearly falling over thanks to a sudden bout of dizziness.  But he managed to stay on his feet as he rummaged through the things in his tent.  It was definitely _his_ tent.  Everything inside had belonged to him… at one point.  Years ago. But none of those things was what John was looking for.

Eventually John found it, thrown haphazardly in a corner under some clothes.  His satchel. _Arthur’s_ satchel.  John all but ripped it open and fumbled with the contents, nearly spilling them, before finally pulling out the familiar old journal inside.  He opened it and flipped through the pages, reading Arthur’s familiar scrawl, and then his own added to it when the book had become his. With a sigh, John sank back down to sit on the cot, cradling the old book against his chest. 

He wasn’t insane.  Everything he remembered happening… it had really happened.  Even though the… people… here seemed to have no recollection of any of it. Hosea. Susan. Arthur… they had all died. John hadn’t imagined any of that.  John didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed… but at least he wasn’t insane. 

So that meant he was either dreaming... or dead…

If this was a dream, he really wanted to wake up now.  He wasn’t sure how much more of this he could handle. Even though he’d often wished for the chance to see some of the people he’d lost again… this… this wasn’t…

“Be careful what you wish for,” John muttered to himself.  He looked down at the journal again before slipping it back into the satchel and then hiding it under his cot for good measure.  He didn’t want anyone else finding it. He… didn’t know what might happen if they did. What would they think?  Especially Arthur, considering the journal was _his_ to begin with. 

Taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm his nerves, John slowly rose to his feet and headed to the front of the tent.  If this was some kind of weird dream, he needed to find a way to wake himself up. Maybe he wasn’t dead… yet… but maybe he was unconscious from hitting his head?  In some kind of coma? _Dying_.  Didn’t people who’d woken from comas sometimes talk about bright lights and seeing dead loved ones?  Maybe he was laying in the woods right now, his brains leaking out of his head, and no one would come find him or help him!

John wasn’t ready to die.  He couldn’t. He still had Abigail and Jack to think about.  Even though Abigail had left him… there was always a chance she would come back.  He needed to be there if she did.  He couldn’t just lie down and die and leave them behind. He needed to go back.

His resolved firmed, John yanked back the flap of his tent and stepped outside again.  Once again the bright afternoon sun nearly blinded him, but he shielded his eyes, and stepped outside with determination.  It seemed pretty quiet around the camp. John wasn’t sure what to expect or who he expected to see. But he didn’t see Hosea again… or Arthur.  He wasn’t sure whether he felt disappointed or relieved by that.

John glanced towards the edge of the woods, wondering what would happen if he just… left.  Surely the entire world couldn’t be stuck in the past as Horseshoe Overlook seemed to be. Unless he was dreaming, in which case, it definitely could be.  If this wasn’t some kind of dream… well, he wouldn’t find out if he didn’t try anyways.

So he started walking towards the path that would take him out of camp, and nearly collided with someone coming around the side of his tent. 

“Oh!  Pardon me, Mister Marston,” the O’Driscoll boy… Kieren… apologized immediately as he stumbled back, nearly dropping the bale of hay he’d been carrying. 

“No… no harm done,” John managed to choke out even though his throat felt tight.  Kieran gave him a slight smile and nod before continuing on his way to feed the horses. John watched him go with a lead ball forming in his gut.  He'd helped bury that boy... John was pulled from his thoughts when he saw Arthur’s old horse  grazing over by the others, which meant the man was probably around somewhere. He also saw… Old Boy... and felt his eyes start to sting with emotion against his will.  The horse lifted his head to look right at him, swishing his tail as if excited to see him, and John forced his gaze away.

No… he had to get out of here…

He started walking again and passed by the front of Dutch’s tent.  Against his better judgement he glanced inside.  He didn’t see Dutch… he wasn’t sure whether or not to feel relieved by that… but he did see Molly O’Shea.  He hadn’t been there when Miss Grimshaw had shot her, thinking that she had been the rat.  He’d only heard about it later. They had never been close.  Hell, Molly hadn’t been close to really _anyone_ besides Dutch. But when she turned to look at him and offered a soft greeting, it still made his stomach clench with emotion. 

Lenny was lounging in his tent, reading a book, and he didn’t look up from it when John passed, thank goodness.  Sean was sitting at the poker table… drinking of course, and didn’t seem to notice John either. There was no one at Mister Pearson’s wagon, but a pot still hung over the fire with stew cooking.  Beyond that, John could see Leopold Strauss bent over a table working on one of his ledger books. This made John stop in surprise. Arthur’s journal had mentioned how he’d thrown the loan shark out of camp near the end.  The man had gotten off lucky in John’s opinion, he’d missed the bloodbath at Beaver Hollow… but if he was here _now_ did that mean…?

In a panic, John took another fast look around the camp, but he saw no sign of Abigail or Jack and he let out a relieved breath.  Even though he felt a little idiotic about his fears. If this was a dream, there was no reason why he _wouldn’t_ see others who were still alive around camp.  But so far John had only seen people who he already knew were dead… aside from Strauss.  But given the man’s age and profession, it wasn’t hard to believe the man might have died in the intervening years.  The possibility of John himself being dead was really beginning to seem more and more likely, and the idea left him feeling even more sick to his stomach.

Not knowing what else to do, John could only return to his original plan of trying to leave camp.  He turned back towards the path that lead into the woods, and ran right into Arthur Morgan. Literally.  It was like hitting a brick wall, and John staggered back, only to be stopped by Arthur’s hands reaching out quickly to steady him.

Well, dying certainly hadn’t slowed Arthur’s reflexes any, John thought a little hysterically.  He only distantly realized Arthur was speaking to him.

“Hey!  Easy now.  Where the hell do you think you’re going?” the older man asked, frowning in his usual way. 

“I need to go,” was the only answer John was willing to give, and he tried to step around the other man.  But he should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.  Arthur’s hold shifted from supporting to confining in an instant. His grip like iron and John knew he probably wouldn’t be able to break it easily, if at all.

“Oh, no.  I don’t think so.  You can barely stand up straight.  Only place you’re going is back to bed,” Arthur stated firmly, and started to turn John around forcibly when he didn’t immediately comply.  John resisted, as much as he was able, but Arthur had the clear advantage in strength right now and he was right. John _wasn’t_ all that steady.  Even so, that didn’t stop John from struggling against the man’s hold. 

“Let me go, damn it!  I need to go!” John demanded, trying to wrench his arms out of Arthur’s hands, forcing the older man to tighten his hold.  Probably leaving bruises behind on his skin, but John didn’t give a damn right now.

“Stop being a stubborn jackass, Marston!  Just go back to bed…” Arthur growled, and not knowing what else to do, John took a desperate swing at him.  His reflexes were slow, and Arthur easily batted away the weak punch, but it still still pissed the man off, “God damn it!  What the hell is wrong with you?”

Rather than waiting for John’s answer, Arthur shifted his grip and suddenly John found himself thrown over the man’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes.  Completely ignoring John’s protests, Arthur carried him back to his tent.

“No!  Put me down, damn it!  I don’t belong here!” John cried out, knowing he sounded like a lunatic, probably drawing the attention of everyone in camp, but he didn’t care right now. 

“Pipe down, Marston.  Just sleep it off,” was all Arthur said once they reached John’s tent, and he finally set John back down on his cot.  John was a little surprised the man hadn’t simply dropped him given all the trouble. John felt himself near tears again as he struggled to get up, but Arthur held him pinned him down far too easily for his liking.

“Please, Arthur… please… I don’t belong here… I’m not dead…” 

Arthur blinked down at him as though John had lost his mind completely.  Maybe he had…

“Of course you’re not dead.  You’re just an idiot,” Arthur stated firmly, and in spite of everything, hearing Arthur confirm that he wasn’t dead _did_ make John feel a little better.  Hell, if anyone knew anything about being dead, it would be Arthur…

John choked on the hysterical laugh that tried to escape him.  Arthur pressed him back down to the cot, and this time John went without a fuss, most of his strength spent in his emotional upheaval. But surprisingly Arthur’s hands lingered on his shoulders afterwards and when John blinked his gaze up at the man, Arthur’s face was etched with deep concern. 

“You okay now?” Arthur asked hesitantly after a long awkward moment.  Another laugh, bordering on a sob, cracked from John in spite of himself. 

“No,” he admitted, his voice hoarse, and close to breaking.  Arthur sighed heavily in response, but he eventually released John and sat back.  He seemed a loss for words, and covered up the silence by straightening the hat on his head that John’s struggling had knocked askew.  John couldn’t stop staring at it afterward.

Arthur’s hat… the one he’d given John, along with his satchel and journal.  It should be sitting in his old footlocker back at Beecher’s Hope. Home…

“I need to go home…” John whispered, pleading.  He knew he sounded scared. He hadn’t been this scared in a long time.  Arthur, as hard as he was, wasn’t a cruel man. John probably knew that better than anyone.  Especially after having access to the man’s journal for so many years. Still he was a little surprised by the gentle hand that Arthur laid on his arm. 

“You _are_ home… you’ll be fine… just rest,” Arthur reassured, and John wished he could believe him.  Wanted to. It would be so nice to believe that this was real. That none of the horrible things he remembered had happened…

Arthur patted his arm one final time, and rose.  Probably intending to leave now that John was relatively calm again.  As much as it hurt seeing Arthur now… having him treat John like he had... before… after everything they had been through... John didn’t think he could be alone right now. 

“Please don’t go,” John whispered.  Arthur froze, his eyes going wide in surprise.  He stood there, as though undecided, for several heartbeats, before sighing heavily and sitting back down on the edge of John’s cot.  John swallowed hard against the tightness in his throat, “Thank you…”

“Just go back to sleep.  You’ll feel better in the morning,” Arthur replied gruffly.  He sounded like he wasn’t sure if he believed his own words or not. John let his eyes slip closed in exhaustion anyway.  


	5. Chapter 5

When John woke again he was alone. 

That wasn’t much of a surprise, since hours had apparently passed since the last time he’d been awake.  Enough that the sun had set at some point and it was now dark outside his tent. John had no way of knowing how late it actually was.  It could be early evening or the middle of the night. Given how quiet the camp was right now, it was probably later on.

But as he laid on his cot, listening and gathering his bearings, he started to pick out hushed voices.  Coming from not far away, but soft enough it took John a moment to recognize them as Arthur and Hosea’s.  In fact, they sounded as though they were speaking right outside his tent.

“... he’s talking like a goddamn lunatic, Hosea!” Arthur’s gruff words made John frown and he sat up slowly in order to listen better.  He could guess who they were talking about and though it stung a bit, he wasn’t exactly surprised. To them, he probably _did_ sound absolutely nuts.  John still wasn’t sure that he wasn’t...

“I know you’re worried, Arthur,” Hosea replied, and ignored Arthur’s dismissive snort, “You know head wounds are funny things.  John is just… confused. He needs rest. I’m sure he’ll be back to normal in no time.”

“And what if he isn’t? He’s always been an idiot, but this is… different,” Arthur hissed back, and despite his denial, even John could pick up the concern in the man’s tone.  It made John’s heart feel like it was being squeezed inside his chest.

“He’s been through a lot lately.  We all have. First the wolves, and now this.  Just give him time,” Hosea reassured, and his words brought back a flood of memories. 

Even to this day hearing the sound of wolves howling made his blood run cold.  His hand lifted to his cheek and brushed over the long healed scars. He’d gotten off rather lucky, all things considered.  He would have died on that mountain if it hadn’t been for Arthur and Javier. When they’d found him… it had been the first time, in a long time, that Arthur had looked at him, and John hadn’t seen anger in his eyes. 

Of course once John had healed up Arthur had gone back to insulting his intelligence and berating him for everything and anything… but it had lacked the bite it once had. John had begun to hope… Maybe they’d never be as close as they were before John had left the gang, but he’d hoped maybe things could get better. That maybe they could learn to be friends again, if not brothers. 

If only John had known… if only he hadn’t been so… stupid and stubborn.  He’d wasted _so_ many years.  Arthur had pushed him away and John had just... _let_ him.  Too proud to admit he was wrong.  Too pig headed to say he was sorry.  If only he’d tried harder. If only he’d tried _at all_ .  Eventually they’d grown close again, just as John had wanted.  Maybe closer than they’d ever been… but only because everything else had started to fall apart.  Only because Arthur was _dying_... and it was only when John had lost the man for good did he come to realize just how _much_ Arthur had meant to him.  How much he… _could_ have meant to him if there was time…

Time… time was a god damn heartless bitch…

“Why don’t you go get some rest.  I’ll sit up with him for a while,” Hosea’s voice drew John from his thoughts, and he held his breath as he waited for Arthur’s reply.  But none came. There was a long length of silence, and then the sound of footsteps moving away. John’s heart sank and he sighed heavily.  He didn’t even pretend to be asleep when Hosea pushed aside the flap of his tent and stepped inside. If the older man was surprised to see him sitting up awake, he didn’t show it.

“John, my boy.  Feeling any better?” Hosea asked and John shrugged slightly.

“I guess,” he answered honestly.  His head still hurt something fierce, and he still felt dizzy and queasy, but maybe not so bad as before.  Hosea nodded in approval.

“That’s good to hear,” the man said as he took a seat on the edge of John’s cot.  The very same place Arthur had sat earlier. His disappointment must have shown on his face, because Hosea chuckled softly, “If it’s any consolation, he’s been here all day watching over you.  Maybe in the morning, you two should have a long overdue talk?”

John looked away, picking at the flimsy blanket thrown over him. 

This was such a familiar scene that it made his heart ache.  John couldn’t count how many times he’d sit and talk with Hosea, just like this, when he was growing up.  The older man often had pretty good advice… even though John was too young and stupid to take much of it to heart at the time.  Now… 

“It’s too late for that,” John muttered dejectedly.  Hosea sighed heavily, looking at him with a mixture of frustration and pity. 

“You know… when you went missing for a year?  Arthur went looking for you. He searched for _weeks_.  Long after everyone else gave up looking…” Hosea admitted, and John looked at the older man in surprise.  No one had ever told him that before.

“When he finally stopped looking for you… he was different.  He was cold. Withdrawn. He drank far too much, and ignored everyone who tried to talk to him.  Even Dutch,” Hosea went on and his words made a cold ball of lead form in John’s stomach, “After a few weeks of that, he got angry instead.  Violent. Took it out on anyone he could. He came back to camp covered in blood so often I was afraid sooner or later he’d come back with a bullet in him… or he wouldn’t come back at all.”

John didn’t know what to say.  He could only stare at Hosea with wide eyes.  Why hadn’t anyone told him this before. Was it even true?  Or just something his deranged mind had made up?

“Eventually Dutch decided to move camp… We had to, with all the attention we were getting.  But Arthur… you should have seen him when he heard the news. Thought Arthur might tear Dutch apart with his bare hands.  ‘How were you supposed to find us if we upped and moved?’ he argued… but you could see it in his eyes. He didn’t believe you were coming back… Because he could only think of one reason why you hadn’t come back already…”

“Arthur thought I was dead,” John suddenly realized.  God… He hadn’t told anyone he was leaving. He hadn’t even left a damn note.  He’d just… never came back one day. What else was his family supposed to think?  Arthur had been in _mourning_.  For him.  Hosea nodded sadly and John cursed under his breath. 

That understanding brought with it a new wave of intense guilt that John didn’t know how to deal with.  No wonder Arthur had reacted the way he had when John had returned. Just waltzing back into camp after a year like nothing had happened… John probably would have reacted the same exact way if their situations were reversed. 

Instead of being understanding, he had resented Arthur’s anger.  Instead of apologizing, he’d been hurt and confused by Arthur’s actions. They fought constantly, and finally resorted to simply avoiding each other as best they could in such a small group.  The more time that passed the harder it was to bridge the yawning chasm that had opened up between them. Until John had given up trying…

He was such an idiot…

“Why didn’t… why didn’t you tell me before?” John asked weakly.  If he had only known… but that was unfair. If he had an ounce of sense he _would_ have known without needing it spelled out to him.  And it wasn’t like Hosea hadn’t prodded him time and again to make an effort in healing some of those old wounds. 

He just… hadn’t.  Maybe he’d thought things would eventually get better with time… look how that turned out...

“I don’t know. I guess I figured you two would eventually work it out on your own.  Obviously I misjudged how stubborn you two idiots are,” Hosea replied jokingly, obviously trying to lighten the mood.  It didn’t really help. Seeing his dejected expression, Hosea sighed heavily, “Just… talk to him John. He still cares about you, no matter what he might say otherwise.”

John squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head.

“It’s too late…” he repeated brokenly.

Arthur was gone.  He’d been dead for nearly a decade.  They’d made their peace with each other a long time ago.  This… whatever it was… it wasn’t real. The Arthur here wasn’t the _real_ Arthur.  Just like he wasn’t talking to the real Hosea now.  John wasn’t sure _what_ this all was.  But it wasn’t some kind of second chance.  It was just… torture.

Maybe he really _was_ dead after all and this was Hell…

Hosea reached out to squeeze John’s knee under the blanket. 

“It’s _never_ too late, John,” Hosea said firmly and… God… he sounded so much like the real Hosea would have.  He had no idea what was going on. How was this even possible? John opened his eyes and lifted his head.  How could he even begin to explain…

“Hosea… _look_ at me,” John pleaded.  He hadn’t been able to see himself in a mirror yet, but… John was pretty sure he looked the same as he had a few days ago.  Eight years older than he’d been the last time Hosea had seen him. If nothing else, the fully healed scars on his face, rather than the freshly stitched wounds, had to be a dead giveaway something wasn’t right. 

Hosea merely frowned at him.  Looking confused. Eventually John sighed and hung his head again.  It was like they couldn’t see him… not really.

“Can I… be alone right now?  I need to figure out some things,” he asked softly.  He could see Hosea wanted to argue but instead the old man gave a slight nod, stood, and reached out to squeeze his shoulder in a friendly manner.

“Alright, just… if you need anything, John, _anything_ , let me know,” Hosea offered and John nodded.  With one last warm pat to his shoulder, Hosea slipped out of his tent.  John moved to sit on the edge of his cot and hung his head in his hands.  There he remained for a good hour pondering his next move. He needed to get out of here, that much was clear.  Wake up from this… nightmare… or whatever it was. Get back where he belonged…

But if he tried to leave like before, someone would probably just try to stop him again.  Maybe Hosea, since he would have to pass right by the man’s tent on the way out. Or whoever they had placed on guard duty for the night.  He wasn’t going to get very far stumbling around in the woods in the dark.

Rising to his feet, John pulled the flap to his tent aside and peered out into the night.  It was quiet. Peaceful. The moon cast everything in a bluish white light, making the camp appear even more dreamlike than before. 

A dream… it had to be… it was the only explanation. 

He stepped outside, a slight shiver working through him as his bare feet sank into the cold dew covered grass.  He glanced to his left and for once Arthur’s tent was closed up. Hiding the man, who was probably asleep on his cot by this point, from view.  That was probably a good thing. Because every time John looked at him… he couldn’t help being tempted. _Wanting_ this to be real…

“I can’t stay…” John muttered under his breath to himself.  This isn't where he belonged. He needed to go home… His feet carried him past Arthur’s tent towards the cliff and there John stood on the rock’s edge.  At nearly the exact same spot as the first time he’d come here. He looked down, but it was too dark to see the ground below.  He didn’t need to. He knew a fall from this height would surely kill him.

If he couldn’t leave one way… maybe he had to find another way.  In dreams… when you died you woke up right? And if he was already dead… then it wouldn’t matter either way.

“This is the stupidest plan you’ve ever had, John Marston,” he whispered to himself.  Problem was, he didn’t really have any others. He had no idea what was even going on and he already felt like he’d been here for far too long.  If he stayed any longer… he was afraid he might not want to leave.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. 

Leap of faith… right?

John started to step forward… only for someone to grab him by the shirt collar and yank him back with enough force that they both fell to the ground.  Hard. John grunted as the wind was knocked out of him. The body that landed nearly on top of him adding to the bruises he already had, and the fall doing his already aching head no additional favors.  But before he could recover, he was grabbed by the lapels of his shirt, and John found himself staring up into Arthur Morgan’s furious face as the older man shook him like a rag doll.

“What the fuck were you doing?!”


	6. Chapter 6

Arthur…

John blinked stupidly up at the man towering over him.  Where had he even come from? John had thought he was asleep…

“Answer me, Boy!” Arthur demanded in a vicious snarl, and shook him again violently.  John felt like his brain was being rattled inside his skull, the pain in his head returning tenfold.  He grasped at Arthur’s hands weakly, trying to pry them away, but the older man was having none of it. Arthur shook him again, and John couldn’t help the hiss of pain that escaped him.

“Arthur… please…” John begged, and Arthur finally let him go with a curse.  John fell back on the ground like a puppet with its strings cut, gasping for breath, and his heart racing in his chest.  He felt Arthur’s hands on his face, a little more gentle this time, as he turned his head to the side. Something warm dripped down John's neck, and he heard Arthur curse again.

“Fuck… you’re bleeding again…” he heard the older man mutter under his breath, “Come on, get up.”

John really didn’t want to move right now.  He shook his head slightly, earning him a muttered growl from the the other man.  Rather than wait for John to comply, Arthur simply hauled him up himself unceremoniously. The wave of dizziness that washed over John at the movement would have sent him back to the ground if Arthur wasn’t supporting him.  As it was, it caused John to immediately empty the contents of his stomach.

Thankfully there wasn’t much in there to begin with.

Arthur made a disgusted sound, but at least the man held his hair back from his face until John was finished being sick.  Afterwards, Arthur guided him stumbling back towards camp. At first John thought Arthur was taking him back to his tent again, but to his surprise, he found himself pushed down to sit on the fallen log next to the campfire.  He swayed a little at first, but Arthur steadied him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t you dare move,” Arthur ordered once it was clear John could sit up on his own without falling over.  John gave a weak nod, and then Arthur was gone. Despite how angry and rough Arthur was being, John found he missed the other man immediately.  He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees to rest his head in his hands with a groan.

Arthur returned a few moments later and nudged him to sit up again. 

“Drink this,” the man ordered, and right now John simply didn’t have it in him to argue.  He took the small bottle that Arthur thrust into his hands and fumbled with the stopper a moment before he brought it to his lips.  Whatever was in it tasted like crap, nearly making him gag, so he figured it was some kind of medicine. A tin cup was pushed into his hands next containing water.  John used the water to rinse out his mouth first. Spat into the grass. Then sipped slowly at the rest. Arthur took the cup back from him once he was done.

John was still waiting to see if the water would settle in his stomach or come right back up, when Arthur’s hands moved to the bandage on his head and started unwinding it.  John almost pulled back with a hiss of pain. But he knew any quick movement would probably unbalance him and the last thing he needed was to fall over yet again. He still tried to turn his head away when Arthur started pouring some water from a canteen over the back of his head and neck to wash away the blood.

“Damn it!  That’s cold!” he protested. 

“No shit! Now stop squirming unless you want me to hogtie you!” Arthur threatened, and John knew from experience it wasn’t an idle one.  He sat as still as possible, trying not to wince, while Arthur cleaned up the blood and examined the wound on his head. Apparently satisfied his brains weren’t leaking out of his skull, Arthur went on to wrap a clean bandage around his head. 

“You need a goddamn bath,” Arthur muttered with disgust as he tied the bandage off and John chuckled humorlessly.

“What else is new?” he whispered.  Actually, given how much Abigail had hounded him over the years about setting a good example for Jack, he’d started taking baths a lot more often.  He still wasn’t that fond of water. Far from it. Still tended to shy away from rivers or lakes that were too deep. But since he was unlikely to drown in an actual bathtub, he didn’t really have much of an excuse for poor hygiene if one was available.

Still, hearing Arthur berate him over his bathing habits was so familiar it was almost… comforting.  Though he’d never admit it. In the past sometimes he’d avoided bathing too often just to piss Arthur off.  It was something Miss Grimshaw often let John get away with, given his fear of water. When in contrast she’d drag Arthur by the ear, sometimes literally, to the washing buckets if he returned to camp covered in filth too often.  The memory almost made John smile.

At least, it did until Arthur grabbed him by the chin and forced John to look up at the older man’s furious expression. 

“Now… you want to tell me what _that_ was all about?” Arthur demanded.  John swallowed hard and shivered slightly at the man’s tone.  The sudden feeling of cold having nothing to do with the cool air or the water that still dripped down under the collar of his shirt from his wet hair.  He started to shake his head, but it wasn’t that easy with the grip Arthur still had on his face.

“Not really…” he said instead.  Arthur’s eyes narrowed.

“Well, too fucking bad!” the older man hissed, his fingers tightening enough that it made John’s jaw ache.  He’d probably have bruises on his face in the morning, “You’ve been acting… strange. Now you… you almost…”

Arthur’s voice trailed off.  His blue eyes wide and his face paling significantly.  The way Arthur was holding John it was impossible _not_ to feel his hands shaking.  Arthur’s hands _never_ shook.  But when John reached up to grasp Arthur’s wrist he could feel his pulse thrumming quick as a rabbit's. 

Arthur was terrified. 

John had no idea what to do… what to say… how did he even begin to explain...

“I…”

“John?  Arthur? Everything alright?” Lenny’s voice broke the unbearable tension building between them, and Arthur immediately released John.  John swayed at the sudden loss of support and he had to reach out to catch Arthur’s belt to keep himself from falling over. He turned his head to see Lenny standing nearby with a rifle in his hands, watching them with wide eyes and a perplexed expression.  He could only imagine what this looked like…

“Everything’s fine,” Arthur was quick to dismiss the younger man’s concern, “John was just… sleepwalking.  I’ll get him back to bed. You can get back to watch.”

Lenny didn’t look all that convinced, but thankfully let it go.  He nodded and headed back towards the edge of the woods. John let out a relieved breath and rested his forehead against Arthur’s stomach.  For having slept for most of the day, he was feeling utterly exhausted right now.

Arthur remained almost unnaturally still for several long moments before finally a hand wound its way through John’s hair to grip the back of his neck.  The fingers digging into his muscles were just on the edge of being uncomfortable, but felt surprisingly… grounding. He looked up at Arthur through the fall of his hair and found the older man watching him with an unreadable expression. 

A moment later, Arthur shook his head.  As though breaking himself from a trance.  Then his hand shifted to John’s shoulder, pushing him back.

“Get up,” Arthur ordered gruffly.  John didn’t get much aid from the other man as he struggled to his feet and started a careful trek back to his tent.  With Arthur following right behind him.  So he wasn’t quite prepared when the older man suddenly grabbed him by the arm and turned him towards Arthur’s tent rather than his own. John gave the other cowboy a confused look, and received a derisive snort in response. 

“If you think I’m letting you out of my sight after you almost walked off a damn _cliff_ , you really _are_ out of your mind,” Arthur growled out and John had the good grace to look away, feeling ashamed. 

“It ain’t like that…” he muttered as Arthur pushed him not so gently inside the tent. Anger still radiated off the older man like heat from a fire.  John knew if he wasn’t careful, he could ignite those flames into an inferno he wouldn’t be able to control.

“How about you tell me what it’s _like_ then,” Arthur hissed in reply, grabbing John by both arms now, forcing John to look at him.  In the privacy of Arthur's tent there'd be no interruptions this time.  John's hands came up to rest weakly against Arthur’s chest, trying to keep some distance, but he didn’t try to pull away.  Yet. Mostly because he knew he wouldn’t be able to right now and if this devolved into an actual fight, he was definitely going to lose. 

“You said it yourself.  I was sleepwalking…”

“Bullshit!” Arthur growled back, his hands tightening on John’s arms, making the younger man wince. 

“I wasn’t trying to kill myself, Arthur,” John insisted.  He hoped Arthur would believe that if nothing else. He just… wanted to _wake up_ , damn it! “I don’t wanna die.”

Arthur’s eyes bored into his own for a long time before his hold on him relaxed slightly, and John let out a relieved breath, his head falling forward to rest on the older man’s shoulder.  He still felt incredibly dizzy, and standing this close to Arthur Morgan really wasn’t helping much. The older man smelled like sweat, tobacco, and horses.  Not really the best mix, but so damned familiar… He was so damned warm, and John could feel Arthur’s heart beating against his hand.

Alive… he felt so… alive…

John’s breath hitched in his throat.  His chest felt tight with emotion.  Arthur’s breath puffed against his ear as the older man sighed heavily. 

“You’ve got blood on your shirt…” Arthur remarked.  John hummed softly, offering no actual reply, but he didn’t resist when he felt Arthur’s hands sliding his suspenders off his shoulders.  Or when his fingers started working open the buttons of said shirt.  But John's heartbeat definitely quickened when those warm callused hands slid the material down his arms, leaving him bare from the waist up.

“Arthur…” John breathed the man’s name like a prayer and his fingers caught on Arthur’s belt for support for the second time tonight, leaning into his weight.  The feeling of Arthur’s hand coming to rest low on John’s back reignited a spark inside him he’d thought long extinguished.

 _You’re my brother…_ Those had been the last words that John had ever spoken to Arthur.  Words he’d always regretted. Because even knowing it would be the last time he would ever see the man, he’d still been too much of a coward to say what he _really_ wanted to say. 

 _I know…_ Arthur had replied.  Like he really _did_ know.  Everything John felt, everything he _meant_ to say, but didn’t.  There hadn’t been enough time to ask if Arthur had felt the same way.  What did it matter anyway? Arthur was going to his death, and John was going back to his family.  John had squandered what little time they’d had together, and there was no way to get any of that back…

Then how… how was any of this happening now?

“This can’t be real…” John whispered faintly, feeling the burn of Arthur’s stubble against his own cheek as the man turned towards him.  Their lips were so close they were practically breathing the same air.

Then Arthur was kissing him.  Crushing his mouth to John's with an almost bruising force.  A firm hand on the back of John’s neck to keep him from pulling back.  John could only moan softly under the onslaught, his lips parting almost of their own accord to allow Arthur’s tongue inside his mouth to taste him fully. 

But then just as suddenly Arthur was pulling away, leaving John all but whimpering at the loss.

“That feel real enough to you?” Arthur asked, his voice practically a low growl, that sent a body wide shudder through John.  Rather than answer, John reached up to tangle his fingers into Arthur’s dark blonde hair, and brought their lips together again.  

**Author's Note:**

> 


End file.
